“Worry not, Damesen.” Dolren’s other talent, depending on who you asked, was superb hearing. With a lack of understanding when his opinion wasn’t wanted. “I’ll arrange those once we’ve crossed Her Veil, then again after the barge—”
How curious. “Why then and not now?”
The man visibly squirmed. “I really can’t say—”
Tercle squinted at him. “Why not? Everyone knows—staff knows,” she corrected, meeting Pylor’s gaze. “There’s nought made-stock left in the hold but for what serves the lord’s court. We’d all hoped the scribemaster was here to restock.”
Because made-beasts assisted throughout a hold, saving work for its inhabitants—or had. She hadn’t noticed. Why would she, there being no place for magical creations in her lab, and abhorring the contraptions of her peers. As for Saeleonarial, he’d escaped lightly. No one mage could replenish an entire hold and survive.
No hold could afford his price were he willing to try, not even theirs.
“How long has there been a shortage?”
“Since the twentieth of Lightsmeri, just shy of midnight.”
Pylor blinked. “Impressive precision.” Implausible was another word.
With a gratified nod, Dolren settled himself on a narrow step, still gripping the handle. “It happened there was a caravan of freight wagons—thirty of them, with cargo from Ichep, some of it perishable—taking the tunnel to Her Veil. All at once their made-oxen just—” He made a throwaway gesture. “It took the next day and night to clear the mess. And some bribes to quiet tongues, believe me.”
She hadn’t heard. Again, why would she, locked in her pursuits? Little wonder her cousin had grown strange, faced with such doings.
Or were such doings because her cousin had grown strange?
* * *
Those with Her Gift knew one another. There was a draw between them. Recognition of a higher purpose. Respect.
It made being a mother confusing. Leksand’s scarf was askew and Kait’s fingers itched to fix it. She’d bought it for him in the market by the sea, along with luminous shells and a pot of spiced jelly.
As if sensing her attention, he pulled it from around his neck and shoved it in a pocket. “I had to see you, Momma,” he said with quiet urgency, each word carefully pronounced. Kept up his lessons, he had. “Great-uncle said I could write a letter, but”—brown eyes rose to hers, their expression pleading—“I couldn’t. I couldn’t go without telling you myself.”
“Aie, lad,” she murmured, plucking the poor scarf and rolling it properly. She returned it to his pocket, then flattened her hands briefly on his chest before stepping back. “Aie. Nought’s to be changed, but a proper start, that matters. Well done.”
“You taught him,” Ferden said from where he sat cradling a hot cup of tea. He looked gray under the dirt, and Kait spared a moment to worry.
She’d no more. They’d been given this much grace. The hold daughter and Ursealyon waited in Wendealyon’s chambers for her to say good-bye—the daughter’s boon. Both doubtless burned with impatience. What mattered to them wasn’t her family or even a new student for the mage school. They wanted her report. What she’d heard.
What she’d implied she’d seen.
An acolyte had brought her tiny family to the Daughter’s Quarters, to clean the travel grime before whatever came next. Insom had sent an offering of clothing.
As if she’d dress her kin like one of his courtiers. Having intercepted the delivery, Kait waited for the door to close before she dropped the pile on the floor. “Hang your cloaks here.”
Under those admittedly stained and dusty travel cloaks, the pair wore their best. Kait felt a rush of pride. She’d embroidered the Woodshaven crest—crossed axes and a crock of honey—on the right breast of both jerkins. Those were of fine elk leather, supple and etched with leaf designs, dyed forest green. Beneath were the red shirts of the village. “Wash now,” she ordered gruffly.
There was a bowl of warm water. Combs and towels. She passed each a damp rag to polish their boots as best they could when done. Finally, they stood for inspection and she ran a critical eye from head to toe. As usual, Leksand blushed; he did so easily, cheeks aflame, and she managed not to smile.
Ferden took her face in his hands and pressed dry cracked lips to her forehead. “We’re tidy as we can be, Kaitie-dear.”
She searched his face. The maze of soft wrinkles didn’t hide once-handsome features, nor the kindness there. His eyes? Milky centers obscured the bright blue they’d had, though her mother’s brother could see, still. Large shapes. Bright lights. The edges, if not the whole.
Then there was his heart, strained from hard years and weakened by the ague last winter, making it flutter under stress. “You should be home,” Kait chided fiercely. “What were you thinking?”
He smiled. “That if I let my great-nephew travel alone, you’d have my ears.”
“Aie,” she agreed, the word a breath, no more. “Did you ride at least?”
Leksand shook his head. “Pincel couldn’t spare the mules,” he explained earnestly. “She’s clearing another field.”
“The hold lord’s offered you transport,” Kait told them, though she’d no idea if that meant horses, made or real. The distance to Alden was something of a mystery to her as well, though once in the rich heartlands didn’t everyone go by barge? She’d ask. Anything to see them safely away from Tiler’s Hold and its stones.
“Will we see Lord Insom again, Momma?”
Knowledge has no pity.
“From now on, you must call me Kaitealyon, as I soon will surely call you Lekeonarial. Unless we’re alone,” Kait relented, seeing rebellion brewing in her son’s eyes.
“I’ll stay yer great-uncle, lad,” Ferden promised, clapping the boy on his shoulder. “Nought fancier than that.”
Ursealyon opened the door, nodding respectfully to Leksand and her uncle. Another, younger acolyte stood behind her. “You’re to come to the hold daughter, Kaitealyon.” Her eyes flicked to the discarded heap of velvet; they returned to Kait, their expression unreadable.
“Now?” Kait couldn’t move, wouldn’t. She looked to her son, then to Urse.
“Bettealyon will escort your guests to the courtyard.” The acolyte paused. “Take those,” gesturing to the cloaks, speaking to her family. “You leave for the mage school immediately.”
She’d counted on tonight, perhaps a tomorrow. First The Lady, stealing her son’s future, and now to lose these last precious moments for she knew—if Leksand didn’t—the next time they met he’d have left her behind. Not just in the distance brought by teaching and expectations such as he’d never known—that they could bridge—but time. Depending on how many intentions he created, The Lady would age him by years. Her boy would be gone.
Soon, to be older than she—
“We canna—can’t go,” Leksand protested, proving he did know, after all. He confronted Ursealyon, straight and bold despite having to look up. “We just arrived. I came to visit my m—Kaitealyon,” he corrected himself. “Surely another day—”
“You’ll have what the journey takes,” the senior acolyte pronounced, and was that the ghost of a smile? “By the hold daughter’s command, Kaitealyon travels with you to the mage school to represent her court, as Damesen Ternfeather represents Insom’s. Unless you’ve objection?”
The three from Woodshaven shook their heads in joy-filled unison. Kait jumped for the door. “I’ll get my things.”
“They await you in the carriage. Come with me to the hold daughter, then you may join your son.”
This being impossibly more than Kait had hoped, she clasped Leksand’s warm hand in hers, then her uncle’s in a hurried, not to be farewell, and followed Ursealyon through the door.
* * *
Magic must be intended.
Maleonarial watched the
newly birthed gossamer scamper up the tree, its huge topaz eyes agleam with mischief and life. Like a squirrel, if the animal were almost transparent, winged, and cast the scent of baking bread through the air so a hungry man might drool and swallow with regret.
Harn slumped in a ball of woe, pen clenched in his shaking hand. “I didn’t mean—I wanted—”
Ah, the young. To want desperately. To have the power to reach.
And lack the discipline and training to grasp.
“It’s never happened to me before. Her Words just came and they were in order—I thought they were—and—you won’t tell, will you?” This with woe.
Domozuk tapped his shoulder. “Here, lad.” A calloused palm held a bell. “No harm done.”
Which wasn’t true.
The young farmer watched the gossamer change its hue to that of the leaves and vanish. He turned to them, his face grim. “S’at’s how h’did it? Cil?”
Harn looked horrified, Rid and Domozuk distressed. “No, Nim,” Maleonarial answered. “This was an honest mistake. Harneonarial paid Her fee.”
The student brightened at the name, an eager hope in his eyes. The aging was almost imperceptible. The loss of some freckles. Perhaps a shade less red in his hair. Nothing a young man would notice.
It was how She seduced them all. Take My magic. Create and amaze. Pay Me with your future.
You aged not as if you’d lived the full time She stole from you. Nails, hair, and beard remained their length. Belly, bowel, and bladder remained as full or as empty as before the intention came into being—though their ability to hold their contents weakened. You aged as though seeing your future in a mirror, then found yourself become it.
Explain such matters to Harn, flush with his first success? Gossamer or not, success was how it felt, and Maleonarial restrained the master’s itch to demand what the student had intended to make, then point out what he’d done wrong.
“We’ve rested long enough,” he said. “I’ll carry your bag from now on.” Being master enough to want temptation out of the boy’s reach.
He rode well to the back of their little troop to avoid road dust, letting the others set the pace. They weren’t comfortable in his presence. He couldn’t change that. Couldn’t recover in a day skills neglected for a dozen years.
Little eyes glinted bronze in a shrub as he rode near. Twigs shook at him. The mage grinned. “Spent most of my time talking to you, didn’t I?”
Twigs shook again. Gossamer. The Deathless Goddess. Rabbits. He’d never lacked for company in the wilderness, only intelligible answers.
Domozuk claimed Saeleonarial had brought Harn with them to Tiler’s Hold out of pity, the student incapable of keeping Her Words straight in his mind and driving his masters out of theirs.
How had Harn been able, suddenly, to write a complete, living intention? And no mere made-moth or mouse, but a full-fledged gossamer?
Maleonarial eyed the shrub as he passed it. “Hungry, Hag?”
Twigs shook a final time, whatever that meant.
If it meant anything at all.
* * *
Tiler’s Hold Daughter’s chambers were cluttered and small. A cot against a wall, identical to Kait’s own save for a tapestried cushion, well worn, depicting some sort of undersea life. With tentacles. A clue to the made-servants? She knew nothing of what lived in the sea, other than what appeared on her plate. The back wall held narrow shelves crammed to the tipping point with objects. Sharp ones. Hooked claws arranged by size. Jars of tiny teeth. Rows of triangular serrated nightmares longer than Kait’s palm, not that she’d touch them. Betwixt and between were little statues. Cats in various poses, of varied materials, their teeth showing.
Wendealyon sat in an armed chair, framed by that collection, and showed her teeth in what wasn’t a smile. “Insom waits in the courtyard and threatens to have them leave without you, Kait, if we delay. Quickly now. Urse and I heard the Fell take a deep breath. You?”
“The stones spoke to themselves. As before. No,” Kait corrected herself. “Their voices were louder. Excited or agitated. Then I saw something move—”
“You saw the Fell?” Ursealyon interrupted, eyes on fire. A warrior, given a target.
Kait shook her head. “I don’t know. What I saw traveled along the mortar, wiggled through cracks as lightning might cross a sky, were it slowed enough to see, but this—this wasn’t light but its opposite.” Words. She needed better words. “What I saw drifted—no, oozed out from the wall. Like onto smoke, but heavier. Thicker. Darker than any shadow. Intent.”
Wendealyon caught the word. “Intent on what?”
Her son.
Which couldn’t be true, mustn’t be, so Kait stuck to the truth of what she’d seen. “The Fell went for the small made-creatures, in their cages. When its darkness touched them, they turned to ash. As if—consumed.” She paused, prepared to say the rest and the worst, that the darkness vanished, ceased at Insom’s command—
Or had it? Insom’s shout was to silence his hall, his gesture to gain courtiers’ errant attention. She couldn’t assume the cessation of the darkness other than coincidence. The Fell had been satiated, in some foul way. Or frightened by the shout, if such felt fear.
Who was Kait Alder of Woodshaven, to doubt her hold lord? Not Tiler’s Hold Daughter, not yet, able to summon the wrath of The Lady—
“That we saw too. ‘Consumed,’ you say.” Wendealyon’s eyes narrowed. She looked to her acolyte. “Did it seem so to you?”
“Like our lord, I assumed they’d expired,” Ursealyon admitted, her tone reluctant. “To the chagrin of Insom’s bootlickers, mage work has limits. Remember the mess in the tunnel? The lead drover swore she’d paid for made-oxen to last a fortnight, more than needful to reach their destination, but clearly hadn’t.”
“I remember.” The hold daughter pressed a finger’s tip to the arm of her chair. “I remember it happened the night after we first heard the stones. Perhaps now, we know why. The oxen were consumed.”
Kait’s pulse hammered in her ears.
“By smoke from the walls?” the acolyte replied darkly. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”
“That we’ve been under attack since then. The Lady has, and Her magic. We just didn’t know it.”
“Blessed Goddess.” Ursealyon’s hands reached to the crossed blades at her waist, then fell away. “What’s to be done against stone?”
Brave, the acolyte, braver than she’d ever be. Hearing despair in her voice, Kait felt her own.
The hold daughter’s face might have been carved from stone. “What we must. We keep this evil from devouring the rest of Tananen.” She held the arms of her chair. “The Lady came when summoned—despite Her silence. And yes, Kaitealyon, I spent the best of our sisters to test that She would. Not for one hermit, but for this. To know I can still call on Her to cleanse this hold, if I must.”
And if she took that dreadful step? Be it their shared Gift or something in Wendealyon’s eyes, Kait knew in that instant the hold daughter would not unlock Her Promise to let any escape.
The acolyte was first to stir, lips twisting in a wry grin. “Let’s hope for another answer.”
“Agreed.” Wendealyon’s hands released their grip. Her gaze rested on Kait. “I believe it’s no accident you’ve come to us, Kaitealyon. In you, The Lady gives us a way to track this evil—discover if the Fell has moved outside our walls. A scout.”
The mere thought of the black fume spreading through the woods, the muttering inside in homes and inns, froze Kait’s blood. “Yes, Hold Daughter.”
“To stop it, we need to learn if this has happened before. If it was stopped, before. Question the master mages. Loremasters. Historians. Anyone who might have that knowledge.”
“I’ll go,” Kait said. She was, after all, already bound for the mage school. The hold daughter left
nothing to chance.
Yet, “Be sure,” Wendealyon told her. “This is your choice.”
There was none, but the words were kind. Kait bowed. “It is. I’ll go.”
A brief approving nod, then an assessing look. “Urse will provide you the means to make reports. Once you’re away, our messengers will go to Tananen’s other hold daughters, asking they spread the warning further, but that will take time. If matters here grow worse?” Wendealyon showed her teeth in her fierce not-smile. “In Her Name, by force if necessary, I will seal the gates to Her Veil.”
This was larger than woods and inns. By so doing, the hold daughter would cut Tananen off from the outside world. “I understand.”
“Then, Kaitealyon of Woodshaven, on behalf of Tiler’s Holding, I send you forth. ”
Teeth bared. Claws gripped. Kait’s heart thudded wildly in her chest, the chamber going gray and distant, for what Wendealyon uttered was a call to arms, Her Call.
Defend Me!
Be My Designate, should I ask it.
Preserve Tananen.
“I will,” Kait gasped.
A claw rattled along its shelf, falling to the floor. The words echoed, deeper and deeper, as though traveling a tunnel. Stone shifted in answer.
The three having clasped each other in a final, heart-felt good-bye, none noticed.
Fundamental Lexicon
The world was not always safe.
Magic is perilous. Those come new to Tananen succumb to it as tinder to flame. Those who survive take stock and make choices.
Magic belongs here, not there.
Magic is Hers, not theirs.
We were not alone here.
Those who survive know this. To grasp the incomprehensible, make it small, make it fit, those who survive give the other shape and name. The Deathless Goddess, The Lady, She who is and always was. Those who survive write themselves in Her story. Feel safe. Forget, in time, it’s a story at all.
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